Charlie Needs a Brunette

Red hair, a skull full of something between genius and vermin, and the audacity to have fucked Til Schweiger on my actual couch—there was really only ever one person who was going to complete this thing.

Six months in, Hannah and I had already built something worth being mildly ashamed of: posts about masturbation, heartbreak, and cities that smell like cum. Friends and enemies accumulated in roughly equal measure, which is probably the right ratio. But it was obvious from the start that we couldn’t stay a duo forever. There’s a ceiling to how much creative pressure two people can hold before something has to give, and we were getting close to it. We needed a third force—someone to drag in wilder energy, louder words, a whole new category of bad judgment.

She’d been right there all along. The one who’d crept onto our straight road to world domination and will now be delivering whatever she wants to this journal: curd pastries, horror stories, nude photos. All of the above, presumably simultaneously. Caro. Carolin. The only possible choice.

Welcome aboard the cable car. All we’re missing now is a brunette—then I’m satisfied, I change my name to Charlie, and from that point on I give all notes and directives exclusively by phone.